Too much of a good thing? No such thing.

This past Wednesday, I took another step towards convalescence and turned 23. A number that seems far too big to hold my still childlike spirit. However, when I look around at my friends and coworkers, here, it turns out Taylor and I are still at the very young end of the spectrum. No matter though, because if anything makes you feel elderly and sluggish, it is eating six cakes.

My birthday affirmed many of impressions I had about Turkish Hospitality. It seems, no one could let a birthday slip by without offering a celebration, complete with cake. It began on Sunday, when my weekend class surprised me with a cake and celebration in class. The Turks have a mastery of many foods, but none so perfect as their deserts. Baklava, sutlac, kunefe, and an assortment of others have become staples of my weekly diet. But, I hadn’t had the best of them until I tasted my first Turkish cake. It was the Cadillac of cake, the Dom Perignon of desert, and I wolfed it down in a hurry.

When my second cake came from my weekday morning class on Wednesday, I again savored every bite. After waking from my sugar coma I returned to school that night to find as I entered my classroom, surprise, another cake! This time from my weekday night class. By this time, my gut had its fill of sugar for the month, let alone the day.

With 15 minutes left in class, I received a shock my sugar-clogged heart could barely take. One of my former students, now in Taylor’s class burst through my door, sounding scared and rushed. She told me, brokenly, that there was a problem in the class and Taylor was crying. Well, of course I scampered out the door and up the stairs and crashed though her door, prepared for the worst. Of course, when I entered out of breath and panicked, they began singing happy birthday and cut another cake. It seems, despite Taylor’s opposition, that my former students could not resist getting me a cake. After this point, I barely had an appetite for the beer I planned to drink that night.

Like the young man I am, I still drank the beer. After two beers, I could barely believe my eyes when my fifth cake arrived at the bar. In Taylor’s hands. The one person who I had told all day, “please, no more cake!” had brought a cake to the bar. This time, I cut the cake and distributed it amongst our friends, taking only a small slice. After all, it was past 11 p.m. and the odds of getting another cake seemed low.

So imagine my surprise when I received a few phone calls from my friend, former student, and sometimes contributor to this blog, Halil. He had been walking through Taksim, trying to get a hold of me, in order to give me a surprise. In addition to a beautiful set of cuff links and ties in an ornate tavla board package, he brought cake. Although I couldn’t handle the cake then and five minutes prior had sworn I wouldn’t touch the stuff again, the pistachio and chocolate confection has since been devoured from my refrigerator.

Turkish hospitality and Turkish deserts. Some say you can have too much of a good thing. I say, never.

Great Moments in English Translations

Since I moved to Turkey, one of the things that has become a habit is to spot the faulty English translations around town. There have been some gems so far that have been spotted when no camera was available, usually at restaurants. We have been given menus for “penis kebaps” and “pida with faggot.” But I never expected to find one while brushing my teeth before work. Here is a tube of seemingly harmless Signal Toothpaste that has been hanging around in my bathroom for a week.

Signal Toothpaste, found in my bathroom.

It was only this morning that Taylor pointed out that we were brushing our teeth not with mint, but with racism. Here is a closer look.

Signal Toothpaste, in need of a new copywriter.

Signal Toothpaste, bringing you not only Mint Freshness, but blind superiority to protect your teeth, and your race for up to 12 hours. I can’t decide which is worse, the tagline “White Power,” or that they completed the picture with Mr. and Mrs. Grand Dragon and their son, Bobby E. Lee Jr.

Nasty Habits

Imagine there you are, trying to learn a new language. Energetic and enthusiastic. You want to pay attention, but for some reason your teacher keeps cursing and making lewd gestures between sentences. Sometimes, he or she is so bold as to put those dirty words right there on the board for all to see. It may make you laugh or it may make you wildly uncomfortable. Welcome to the English Time language school.

Since we have arrived here in Istanbul just over a month ago, we have quickly gone from the new faces to the old guard. At our branch, three new teachers have arrived since we did. Many more newbies are living in the temporary housing a few blocks from us, which puts them right in our social circle. So, imagine our surprise when all of us rookies learned a few of the cultural faux pas common to the classroom from the English Time vets.

Umm…

When you are in front of the class one of the first things you figure out is how to slow down your speech. Another thing you learn is use the simplest explanations possible. While your mind is going 100 miles per hour, your mouth must putter along like an aging donkey plowing the fields. Without even thinking about it, you use filler. You say “um,” “uh,”or “okay” repeatedly while your mind scrambles to simplify your language.

Well, here in Turkey, the word “am” is pronounced almost indistinguishably from “um,” but has a very different use. After three weeks of teaching, we have now learned that it is the equivalent of a terrible English curse word. It rhymes with runt. And starts with a “C.”

You would think, though, that since we learned this, we’d be able to stop saying it. Not so. In fact, it comes out so naturally that all the warning did was make us all more aware of when we are calling our students the single worst word in the English language.

A Gesture of Faith

Another common nervous habit among teachers is to snap your fingers and hit the top of your fist to the palm of your other hand. It makes a fun noise. Go ahead, try it. You’ve now told a Turk that you want him to be screwed, for a lack of a better explanation, prison style. A fact our friend and neighbor Jonathan found out after playing the Lone Ranger theme with this hand-instrument in class one day.

If you want to tell your students “okay,” they will probably understand the word. But, they also understand the gesture. Put your index finger to your thumb and stick the other three fingers out. Now hold it up. Okay! Good. Please, just don’t let this sign unknowingly tilt in either direction or you will have just called your students all assholes.

Language Barrier

In English Time there are about equal parts British and American teachers, which can bring some of the differences between our language to the forefront of your class. Especially if a class is split between a British and and American teacher.

“Teacher! Why does Jason say ‘an ‘ospital,’ but you say ‘a hospital?’”

Another difference is that the British, in all their propriety, will say “ill” instead of “sick.” Here, the advantage is all on their side of the pond.

Over the last few weeks, Taylor and I have been fighting off various versions of a cold. I must have told my classes at least a few times that I was fine but that I’ve been sick. Of course, this would come back to bite me. “Sik” in Turkish is pronounced the same way as “sick” in English, but they don’t share a meaning. Sik is the dirty Turkish word for sex, the equivalent of everyone’s favorite English noun, verb and adjective – f*ck. Good thing, then, that one of the new teachers, Kim, in a game she had her class play, put the words “I’m getting sick,” on the board behind her for the entire hour. Laughter and snickering ensued.

A Bit of Forgiveness

After the group of us became enlightened on this side of Turkish culture a few things happened. First was embarrassment and recognition. We became aware and a bit self-conscious of the subtle smiles when we would commit one of these cultural crimes. Now, though, after a little time has passed. I am amazed at how well these students put up with it. It must be incredibly difficult not to bust a gut laughing when a teacher keeps saying “I’m getting sick,” fills the space between sentences with curses or plays a tune on a their hand maracas.

Whether they don’t say anything because they don’t want to embarrass us, or because they understand that we are new to the culture, I can’t say. But I am thankful the students put up with our mistakes and don’t go running to our boss over some simple cultural misunderstandings. Plus, now we’re in on the joke as well, which means a license to laugh at yourself. After all, what else can you do after you’ve just called your classroom a bunch of c***s?

Rules for Rioting

At approximately 11 a.m. on October 6, 2009 the streets of Istanbul erupted with protesters and police as the two groups clashed violently across the Taksim, Cihangir and Tarlabasi neighborhoods. The demonstrations began in Taksim Square with numbers reported anywhere between 1,000 and 10,000.

Soon after, protesters began getting out of control and turned on police, throwing rocks, bricks and molotov cocktails. Police retaliated indiscriminately, unable to tell who was a peaceful protester, who was a violent anarchist and who was just caught on the wrong side of the street. Tear gas flew down the main street, Istiklal Cadessi and into alleyways, into markets and into a hospital entrance. Oh yes, and into our basement window.

After a daylong ordeal, these are the rules I’ve learned for surviving and thriving in a foreign riot zone.

1. Be aware of the protests!

Do not be caught off-guard, as we did, by violent demonstrators. Sitting in our apartment, trying to wake up with a few late morning cups of coffee, Taylor and I heard shouting, chanting and screaming. Really, nothing to be worried about, we thought. Protests occur all the time in Taksim Square and we knew the IMF/Word Bank Conference was in town. Though, it did seem strange how close it sounded. As if it was right outside our window. I took a quick look and was shocked to see a few dozen bandana’ed bandits retreating past our window, with backpacks of stones and carrying molotov cocktails. Normally, this would lead to the second rule of rioting…

2. No matter what, STAY INSIDE!

Clause 2A: Should a tear gas canister bounce off the building next door and land directly in front of your open basement window, Rule of Rioting 2 no longer applies. Instead, put your loved ones in a safe place, preferably equally as far from the tear gas and glass windows as possible. Then, wet a rag, throw it over your mouth and go shut the fucking window! Please, ignore the burning sensation in your eyes until this is complete. Then, after cleansing your orifices as best as possible and letting the smoke clear from in front of your building, follow rule 3…

3. Get the fuck out!

Remember, there’s tear gas in your basement! You should probably leave now. But, where do you go? You don’t speak the language, you are not quite a tourist and definitely not a native. No one else is home in your building and your landlord is being tear gassed in the underground Metro station. Go to the main street, ask the local proprietors you’ve come to know what is going on. When you realize you don’t understand a word, make your best guess and listen to your gut, but make sure to follow rule 4:

4. Loved ones come first.

As badly as I wanted to run toward the burning car and the strips of fire at the top of our street, camera in hand, I had more important things in the other hand — Taylor’s terrified little fingers. This meant finding a safe place before anything else. With no one else in our building we had to head for the English Time temporary housing — on the other side of the protests. Weaving our way between the cops, the armored cars and the mobs of militants we finally made it to a safe place where Taylor and I could relax and wait the thing out. Except for rule #5:

5. Don’t miss it!

How often in your life are you going to be living in a foreign country where actual riots break out in your neighborhood. Whatever you do, don’t miss this. I had been smart enough to grab my camera as we left the apartment and I wasn’t going to let it go to waste. Knowing Taylor was safe, I was free to risk my own skin as I saw fit. Leaving the lojman I found myself going in the opposite direction of the sane people for what would not be the last time during the day.

6. Riots are a spectator sport.

The worst thing that was going to happen, did already: tear gas. And that had passed within minutes. This thought for right or wrong, gave me the crazy idea I could be out in this thing and still be safe. Sprinting from cops and rioters and snapping photos was one of the most fun things I have done in Istanbul and in any of my travels. It was exciting. It was live. Until, you find yourself in the wrong alleyway.

7. If you find yourself the only person in an alley without a rock in your hand, RUN.

I was only a few blocks from the lojman, next to one of our cheap lunch spots, poking my head around the corner to take pictures of the formations of cops about half a block away. One of the twenty or so men around me opened his bag and began to unload Turkish flags and hand them out. I took mine without thinking and snapped another photo. Then, I looked around. Why was I the only person without a hand behind their back? Why did this guy hand me a flag? Why were there cops a half block down? Why were they slowly coming this way? It wasn’t exactly a jigsaw puzzle.

When I was about ten strides down the alley, I heard the chanting start. I turned and the flags were waving in one hand, the other still holding the rocks. I got nearly two thirds of the way down the side street before I learned rule number 8:

8. The gas is easier, the second time around.

There was nothing I could do once I heard the canisters hit the brick buildings. I knew it was coming. The cops were far enough away and I’d put enough ground between me and the protesters that I wouldn’t be mistaken for one. But, the tear gas didn’t care about that. It took my nostrils and throat captive for the second time. My eyes betrayed me and snapped shut, opening only for the tears to explode out like a prissy protestant on prom night. Luckily, I knew the area and managed to stumble around the next corner to relative safety. This gave me time to gather myself before I returned back to the lojman. If there was anything that would make Taylor angrier than me leaving to go into a riot zone, it would be returning with bloodshot eyes and an ill-gotten Turkish flag.

After getting forced out of our place by tear gas, fighting both cops and protesters to get to safety and finally, leaving the green zone for the front lines, only one thing was left. Rule 9:

9. If someone asks you if you want a cigarette, you say yes.

In Turkey, everyone smokes. Everyone smokes, that is, except me. I’ve done well to say no and stay off the cancer sticks for the month I’ve been here. However, as I turned the corner from tear gas alley, a graying Turk slumped in a stool saw my pain as I gripped the wall.

“Sen bir sigara ister misin?”

My Turkish is still terrible, but with a pack of Marlboros extended in his hand, I could roughly get the idea. I took the smoke and sat against the wall for a minute while he stayed in his stool. It couldn’t be worse than the tear gas I had just inhaled, right? With a little empathy and now a little tobacco my eyes had cleared and I could make my way back to the haven of the lojman and the angry girlfriend awaiting my return.

We had survived a foreign riot zone. Just another thing to check off the list.

I’m a teacher?

I remember many of my teachers. The good ones who taught me to think and to write — Mr. Buller and Mrs. Perkins in junior high and Mr. Miller in high school –  I will forever be in their debt. But then there were the bad ones. Ms. Renner was a notorious substitute at my elementary school, and me, a notorious smart ass. Not a good mix. I remember her math always being corrected by students. Elementary school students.

I would come home on the unfortunate days when she would show up to teach my class and bitch all afternoon about how she wasted my precious time. I was actually dumber when I left. My mother would always remind me that teachers were to be respected, no matter what I really thought. But she hasn’t done anything worth respecting, I would say. Just because she’s survived longer than me? Even then I smelled the bullshit.

This is the first September in 17 years that I’m not starting school as a student and now, it is my turn in front of the class. I am a teacher. So is my girlfriend. One of my good friends from the Chapman football program is teaching at a very well respected high school back in Orange County. The same guy who would start our team meetings by sharing his favorite new porn clip is now molding young minds. I’m not knocking him, I am only saying this — we’re just dudes.

Which makes me think, perhaps I was a little hard on my teachers, on Ms. Renner and the rest. After all, they were just dudes, just people, who happen to choose teaching as a profession. I realized this only a few days ago, as I attempted to explain nouns and verbs to a room of blank stares. I didn’t have the strategy for explaining the stuff, apparently, so I did the best I could. Speak slowly, be animated, draw pictures. I just did the best I could and hoped for a good outcome.

I guess this is what all my teachers were doing while I was too busy criticizing them to notice, they were just doing the best they could. In one way, I now appreciate my good teachers a lot more. After all, the chalk and overhead projector do not magically give someone the ability to teach. And, while I didn’t realize it at the time, I’m glad I do now — there are dumb people everywhere you go. You’re bound to find one at the chalkboard every once in a while. Maybe, just maybe, I should have been easier on them.

She-Males, Hashish and Our New Home.

Taylor and I have been busy for the last few days, but the upside of that is that our life here in Turkey seems to be coming together. We’ve observed a few classes and activities at English Time and received our schedule for the first few weeks. We’ve also found a place to live, signed a contract and moved in.

Yesterday, we were observing and participating in a speaking activity at our branch, where students come to converse and practice speaking English. As has happened with most of the Turkish students we’ve met so far, they were very interested in us, where we come from, our thoughts on Istanbul and had some words of advice for us.

After telling the students we had been staying in Taksim, a popular tourist area, one suggested that we needed to get out into “the real Istanbul.”

“From Taksim, you must go to Terlabasi (pronounced tar-la-bash-ee) to see the real Istanbul,” he said. “There you will see she-males, people smoke hashish, they sell you grass and you see lots of Kurds.”

I clarified, so the real Istanbul is she-males and hash? Classroom-wide laughter.

We moved on to another subject, but Taylor and I shared a laugh, as we had moved into Terlabasi that morning. We had heard these jokes about our neighborhood before we moved there, but the truth about it is much less exciting. Terlabasi and Taksim are separated by a large eight lane arterial. We live one block on the Terlabasi side of the road, about three blocks from the lojman we had been staying at.

Technically we do live in Terlabasi. But, to be fair, the only tranny I’ve seen so far was in Taksim, just outside a feminist cafe and bookstore. And no, I haven’t seen anyone smoking hash. Mostly all we’ve seen have been curious neighborhood kids. So, despite the ugly reputation of Terlabasi, I think we’ve found a hell of a spot. We live in the nicest building in our area, in the first floor apartment. Through the door you enter the living room and kitchen and down a flight of half-spiral stairs is our bedroom and bathroom. In the building are four apartments, ours, two others occupied by English Time teachers and our nice, but more importantly, English-speaking landlord Atilla.

Right now, our place, which I’ve dubbed The Harem, is as bare as old Ms. Hubbard’s cupboard. Other than our suitcases, we have a double mattress and a small wardrobe provided by Atilla and some beautiful Turkish pillows to serve as furniture in our living room from our co-workers and upstairs neighbors, Jonathan and Emma. Plus, our friends Bev and Chris who stay in lojman are a five minute walk away with an infinite amount of bars and cafes in between us.

I look forward to knowing we have safe and cozy first apartment together, while still getting a strong reaction from students when telling where we live.

I’ll throw up some pictures of the new place once we get settled.

Now that we’ve left America, let’s go to the mall!

This post is dedicated to my younger brother Jason, lover of both public transportation and malls, but mostly a lover of taking public transportation to the mall.

Cehavir Mall from the street.

Today, Taylor and I went to a teacher’s meeting at our English Time branch in Mecidiyekoy. Usually, I think we will be taking the subway to get there, but this morning we walked it. As we walked and approached our branch, we noticed something large and all to familiar outside the normal metro tunnel entrance in Mecidiyekoy — a mall.

Part of the reason I decided to travel was to escape the materialism all too common in America. Funny then, that within three days of being in Istanbul I found myself in the largest shopping center in Europe, and one of the largest in the world, just outside of my new office. It is the Istanbul Cehavir Mall.

I dedicated this post to my younger brother, Jason, because one of his favorite pastimes has always been going to the mall. He loves to ride the escalators and elevators, check out the Seattle Mariners Store and whenever possible, he finds it more fun to take the bus to get there. Jason, you would be in heaven. This mall has its own metro terminal exit. Meaning, you can walk off the train and into the mall in seconds without so much as touching the street or sidewalk.

It is also six stories tall with 343 stores and is an incredible 4.5 million square feet. For those in Washington, that is over 3 times the size of Bellevue Square (1.3 million ft.^2). For those in California, that is nearly twice the size of South Coast Plaza (2.5 million ft.^2). I don’t know how many elevators and escalators that adds up to, but again, Jason, you could ride ‘em all day. Like the Mall of America, this mall has a roller coaster. But this mall is so massive that it took us 45 minutes of wandering to find the roller coaster. It is also home to the world’s largest clock, located on the glass ceiling and facing directly down at the patrons with the wrong time. Today, at least.

Coming to Istanbul, Taylor had been telling me that the Turks were generally a fashionable people, who did in fact care about labels and designers, the stuff I have no clue about. I had no idea until I entered Cevahir how true that was. Every major label and brand you would find in the states could be picked up right there. Some patrons walked by in the latest European trendy style, others in full burkas. It was an incredible collection of people and stores and one that I did not expect to stumble upon in Istanbul.

Will I be hanging out at the mall now? Almost certainly not. But, it did give me a look at a different side of Turkish culture, or at least Istanbul culture. To those back in the states who have a picture of a backwards, Islamic Turkey, this scene would be an eye opener. After all, I believe that people have a lot more in common than they choose to see and that recognizing this is key to better cooperation between people and countries — even if it has to start with shopping.

One of many children's rides runs through the bottom floor of Cevahir Mall.

Even the world's largest clock is right twice a day.